


Hunger

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:11:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: Post season 6, fix-it fic. Peter and Neal try to figure out how to live in this strange new existence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translation by Remmy here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/7684329

For months before and after Neal's death, Peter fantasised about the moment the clock finally ran out on his sentence and the anklet was removed for the last time. He pictured the team gathered around Neal’s desk - or maybe they’d be in the conference room or break room - holding paper cups of champagne and plates of cake, ties loosened, eyes bright with laughter. It was always dark outside, in these daydreams, the celebration eternally taking place at the end of a long, hard day under the unforgiving glare of fluorescent light. He liked to imagine the cheer that would go up when that green light went out and the plastic clicked open, but these days he always stopped short at picturing Neal’s face, glowing with happiness as of course it would be. Peter wasn’t entirely sure why; his brain seemed to have no problem conjuring up Neal’s ashen image in the dead of night, or during a morning briefing or while driving through Midtown. Or the memory of his apartment the day after, shoes that had been kicked off in the hallway, dishes in the sink, sheets rumpled and still smelling of his cologne. Why deny himself one illusionary moment of peace, even if it hurt?

It was almost a year before Peter allowed himself to wonder what Neal would have done with his life if he had lived and his sentence had run out. Neal had rarely spoken about his plans for the future beyond the moment his freedom was granted - and that was very Neal, Peter always thought - planning a heist in forensic detail but thinking in broad, romanticised notions about his own life. Peter had tried to draw him on the subject a few times - on long stakeouts or nursing drinks in the living room after one of El’s amazing dinners - but an answer had never been forthcoming.

“He’s a dreamer,” El said, when Peter finally voiced his thoughts out loud. They both still slipped in and out of the past and present tense when talking about Neal. “I think maybe he’d have set up his own business - he mentioned security consultancy to me once or twice.”

Peter blinked. “He did?”

“Yeah, said he could do what he does for the bureau but earn six figures, start work after midday and never encounter Old Spice again,” El laughed as she set the bottle steriliser running and leaned back against the kitchen counter. The soft early spring light spilling in through the window cast her in a partial silhouette. “But, y’know, there’d be no one better to secure your museum or vault than Neal.”

“No one better to come back later and let himself in, either,” Peter huffed, uncapping a bottle of his own.

El frowned. “You really don’t think he would have gone straight?”

“I - I don’t honestly know. Maybe he liked the idea of it in a funny way, but - ” he paused, trying to grasp the right words for this particular swirl of feelings. “I think that for people like Neal there will always be this hunger. If you’d grown up with nothing and no one, when would anything ever feel like enough? When would you finally feel safe?”

El’s emotions danced across her face as she shook her head. “He died trying to protect innocent people from harm. Can’t you just hold onto that?”

A lump formed in Peter’s throat, eyes prickling with tears. He nodded as she reached across to squeeze his hand. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Anyway,” El said with forced lightness, blinking back her own tears. “You’re still coming to Dana’s fortieth birthday party this Saturday, right?”

Peter groaned, he’d forgotten all about it. “I don’t know if I’m really up to it, Hon. People. Talking. Canapés.” He let out a long breath. “I feel like I’ve aged a million years.”

“Well I haven’t.” El sashayed across to him dramatically and Peter couldn’t help but burst into surprised laughter. “I’m going to put on that amazing red dress of mine and go outside and talk to other grown ups for a few hours. I’ll leave it up to you to cancel the sitter - or not,” she punctuated the sentence with a kiss on his nose and headed out to take Satchmo for his evening walk.

 

*

 

Gradually, Peter stopped asking himself impossible questions and stopped daydreaming about the impossible future, stepping back into a life that had been running on autopilot just in time for his son’s first steps. He stopped reflexively reaching to check Neal’s map every morning and eventually deleted the app from his phone. Diana returned to the bureau after a brief stint in Washington where she reconciled with Christie, and with her back in the team she and Jones were able to step up and support Peter’s new work-life balance. Together they were also able to bring the unit’s closure rate back up into the low eighties, not as good as it had been with Neal, but still one of the highest in the country. El was flourishing in her new curation role at the Met and as a new mom. Somehow, without looking, life had fallen back into a some sort of equilibrium. But even though Peter was better able to hide it, he still felt hollowed out by a grief that was so raw and present it was like another world existed inside him. He just put a fresh suit over it everyday and went to work, or to the park, or the movies, doing his best to act like that wound wasn’t there. And so many times he found himself wondering if this was how Neal had always felt, inhabiting two versions of himself at the same time, never being able to fully reconcile them, always working in careful, careful fractions.

It was these fractions Peter was contemplating during day two of a particularly dry cyber security conference in Boston when he noticed he had six missed calls from Diana.

“Diana, what’s up?” he asked, bracing himself for bad news as he stepped out of the conference hall and into the sticky late summer air.

“Woodford is dead,” Diana said, without any preamble. He and a number of his men were shot and killed while making an escape attempt last week. Corrections only just released the information.”

“Oh,” Peter said, numbly, trying and failing to stir any emotion whatsoever.

“I thought you’d want to hear it from one of us. I was worried someone at the conference would say something and y’know - ”

Peter smiled. “I appreciate that.”

“Peter - ” Diana was suddenly uncharacteristically hesitant. “Uh, there is something else. This morning the Guggenheim received a cache of artwork, delivered anonymously.” There was a beat of silence and Peter could feel a knot of tension in the pit of his stomach. “Peter, it was artwork widely assumed to have been in Neal’s possession.”

A pulse of electricity ran through Peter’s veins and he blinked rapidly, trying to understand what that meant. “You think Mozzie is returning the pieces?”

Diana let out a short breath that made the line briefly flare with static. The hubbub of the office was distantly audible in the background.  “I don’t know, maybe? To be honest, it doesn’t really sound like something he’d do unless Neal had left some kind of instructions.”

“No, you’re right,” Peter said, grateful she hadn’t used the term ‘will’. “Have you been able to get in touch with him?”

“No, his phone just rings out. I haven't seen him in a few weeks, actually. You?”

Now that Peter thought about it, it was probably several weeks since Mozzie had last been by for dinner. It had become a semi-regular thing since those early days, just companionable silence between three very red-eyed people.

“Listen,” Diana was saying. “We don’t even know that Neal actually stole any of those pieces - you know how clouded in rumour these things are. The lab is running authentication tests as we speak. We’ll know more by tomorrow morning.”

They finished their call and Peter stood dumbly for a moment in the deserted forecourt of the event centre, the monotonous rumble of the keynote speech drifting out to greet him. He could barely dare to believe that Neal had this in mind all along, a plan for the future that Mozzie was now enacting on his behalf. As he stepped off the curb and hailed a passing taxi, Peter wondered if maybe he’d finally get the answer he'd been looking for.

 

*

 

The artwork was declared authentic by a panel of specialists and for weeks the pages of local and national newspapers were covered in images of the paintings being unpacked, smiling experts in tweed jackets and delighted gallery managers. Mozzie was still nowhere to be found, which didn’t necessarily mean anything either way, and forensics on the packaging came up blank. The original case files on the theft provided no illumination and every street contact the bureau had shaken down told them the same thing: Neal Caffrey was the only thief capable of that kind of heist.

The works returned to the Guggenheim were only a tiny, minuscule percentage of the things Neal was suspected of stealing and every day Peter scoured the papers and international news sites for any sign that another cache had been deposited in some other corner of the world.

“You really think he’d planned to give everything back?” Jones asked one evening when they’d all gone for drinks after work. The sports bar they’d decided upon was crowded and they had to sit close together to hear themselves over the din. “I mean, that’s potentially billions, _billions_ of dollars of stuff.”

“Maybe that’s what’s keeping Mozzie so busy - he’s in a warehouse somewhere bubble wrapping Renoirs and Monets,” Diana deadpanned, taking a swig of her beer.

Peter laughed and swirled his glass. “It’s exactly the kind of thing Neal would do, though.”

“Big, showy gesture,” Jones nodded, words unmistakably warm. “Sounds like Caffrey.”

“Honestly,” Diana said. “Those weeks before he - everything happened, Neal was so focused on the Panthers and securing his deal. I’m not sure he was thinking about anything beyond that.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “But he knew there was a fair chance he might be killed in the process. He’d have considered all eventualities, and planned meticulously for each one of them, I’m sure of it.”

Peter was reminded of a conversation he and Neal once had after a joint op with Missing Persons had gone sideways and everyone had only just come through unscathed. They’d sat on Peter’s patio in the calm of the night air waiting out the adrenaline crash and getting a lot more drunk than either of them had ever intended.

“Life is meaningless, Peter,” Neal had declared a little after three in the morning, sanguine, his shirt rumpled and his tie a silken puddle on the table beside his elbow.

Peter had snorted in surprise. “That’s really comforting, thank you. You should give a TED talk.”

And then Neal had smiled, one of his warmest, most genuine smiles that never failed to catch Peter off guard. “I think it _is_ comforting. Life is meaningless, so it means what you make of it.” He had leaned in closer, hair in perfect disarray. “There are no rules. The universe doesn’t give a crap what you do.”

 

*

 

The next stash of art turned up not at a gallery in some far flung corner of the world, but in the bullpen of the White Collar offices, delivered by a courier who interrupted the 11 a.m. round-up meeting with a box addressed to Peter. He opened it there and then on the conference room table, breath caught in his throat as he pulled apart the packing over mortgage fraud case files and surveillance photos. Peter’s heart might as well have stopped when he peeled away the last vestige of cloth to reveal _The Scream_. Even Bancroft looked light headed as the room stood in stunned silence.

 

*

 

“It seems you have a flair for the dramatic, even in death,” Mozzie said, as he dropped a copy of _Le Monde_ on the table in front of Neal and signalled to the waiter inside the cafe to bring him a large glass of wine.

On the front cover was a picture of the artwork itself, but a few pages in there were photos of the ceremony in Oslo with Munch’s masterpiece being officially re-hung in the national museum, and down in the corner of the seventh page was a grainy picture of Peter and the Norwegian ambassador to the US in a slightly awkward photo-op handshake. Neal laughed as he read the article. “The FBI gave Peter a commendation and the Mayor of Oslo has given him a key to the city.” Neal leaned back and took a sip of his cappuccino. “I always said he should travel more.”

“Yeah, well, wait until he sees the price of beer,” Mozzie said, receiving his glass of red gratefully. He took a sip and eyed Neal for a moment. “None of the articles mention you.”

“I didn’t expect them to.”

“Yes, you did,” Mozzie countered.

Neal ducked his head, running his thumb over his lip. “The Panthers trial only finished a few months ago. I’d guess the bureau isn’t publicly linking my name to the art for security reasons.” He smiled, hoping it wasn’t as ugly as it felt. “Anyway, it doesn’t exactly matter now, does it?”

Mozzie’s expression softened and Neal savoured the sight of it. “Listen, are you really sure this is what you want to do?”

Neal rolled his eyes and gave him an exasperated look that was belied by the fondness of his voice; they’d been over this a thousand times. “Yes.”

Mozzie leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “ _All_ of it?”

It had been an almost immediate desire once he’d landed, dazed and nauseous in Paris, to divest himself of whatever would otherwise sit in storage until it was no longer too hot to sell. He was sick to his stomach of waste and loss. The cash and assets, mostly taken from hedge funds and banks, along with the offshore investments, he would keep. He’d grown up in poverty and had no desire to ever come close to that again, in this lifetime or any other. It was only now, over a year later and with Mozzie finally by his side, that he was able to put that plan in motion.

Mozzie’s gaze had fallen appraisingly on the leftovers of Neal’s lunch and the untouched bread basket next to his packet of cigarettes (a newly acquired habit and the reason they were sitting at an outside table in the crisp fall air). Neal took a slice of baguette and picked at it, which seemed to appease him. Mozzie reached across to snag the newspaper. “We should go by that furniture store later, pick up some more sheets and things for your new place,” he said, flipping to the finance section.

Mozzie had arrived in the city a little under a month ago and it wasn’t until that moment that Neal had realised just how close to the edge he was getting. He was still living in the penthouse of the hotel he’d checked into on that first, surreal night, afraid to move into the suffocating quiet of an empty apartment. The first few days and weeks had been spent in bed, sick and dizzy from the after effects of the poison, the comforting babble of network news playing on the TV. But months started to pass and Neal hadn’t felt any better. It had been like a real death in many ways, and he grieved for the life he’d had and the people he’d lost. The anxiety of his new existence became bone deep. He missed Elizabeth and Mozzie profoundly; he ached for Peter. It was an exquisite form of loneliness, one that he could never have prepared himself for. He would reach for his phone before remembering there wasn’t a soul on earth he could call, or he would think of something that would make Peter laugh knowing they’d never speak again. Every interaction - with the porter, the grocer, the pretty girl in line at the boulangerie - was meaningless and superficial. Some days it tested every fibre of Neal’s being to keep moving forward and not quit all together. What do you do when you wake up in the middle of the night terrified and alone, surrounded by a city full of strangers? His anxiety coloured everything, and everything felt hollow. He had been in impossible situations before and he had been alone. But this wasn’t a ‘wink at the police and skip town’ kind of thing. This was bigger and so much more immovable than anything he had ever faced, a heavier burden that any treasure could bring to bear.

They finished their lunch and wandered across Le Jardin du Luxembourg towards the store Mozzie had wanted to visit. The sky was a bright blue sheet above them and the leaves were just starting to curl and burnish on the ground. The wind soughed through the plane trees that lined the elegant paths, causing birds to chatter and take flight. Mozzie paused to swap his glasses for his prescription sunglasses, something Neal had waited countless times for him to do, but the rush of deep affection it suddenly provoked took him by surprise. Neal had been trying to figure out how to contact Mozzie in the weeks leading up to the Panthers' sentencing, spending hours devising complex riddles and signals. But in the end it had been an inelegant, shaky 5 a.m. phone call (for him, god-knows what time it had been for Moz) after a lot of Dutch courage. He’d feared anger, disbelief, rejection, but less than twenty-four hours after that call, Mozzie was standing in Neal’s hotel room. Everything about that moment was blurry. He just knew that Mozzie arrived and, like he had when Neal was a bruised, cynical teenager, he picked him up and helped him turn into something new.

“Are you okay?” Mozzie asked, giving his sunglasses another fastidious polish with a lens cloth before finally slipping them on. “You’ve got that weird look on your face again.”

Neal squinted at him through the low sun. “You think it’ll ever be safe?”

“Safe?” Mozzie’s face fell a little as he realised. “For you to go back to New York?”

“Yeah.”

Mozzie shook his head and they started walking again, their shoulders close, shoes crunching on the gravel path. “I think you should focus on building a life here, mon frère,” he said, but they both knew that wasn’t the question Neal had asked.

 

*

 

With Mozzie around, Neal could breathe. And on those lazy afternoons they spent out on the terrace of his new apartment while the weather was still good enough, he could fool himself into thinking they were back at June’s, or still on the run from the FBI and Peter was somewhere close by. They were dangerous thoughts, of course, but still he indulged. His insomnia eased marginally and he was eating at least two meals a day, and now he had some energy, he made a habit of taking a morning run through the neighbourhood. It was leafy and bustling and really quite beautiful, he’d realised, now he was able to stop and look. For the first time in his life, Neal painted an apartment - a considered, grey-tone - and bought furniture, bedding and cookware. He invested in an Eames recliner he’d always admired and bought an elegant dining table with six chairs to match.

The work provided a welcome distraction, but as perfect as the apartment was, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a stage for someone else’s life. It certainly didn’t look like a home in the way the Burke’s townhouse had. Maybe it was because his life had always been condensed down into short segments - on the run, in prison, on the anklet. Find Kate. Fight for Kate. Wait out one of his mom’s moods. That he’d never been able to think in long, comfortable stretches, the way people like Peter and Elizabeth could, had left him with an eternal sense of impermanence. It was a new concept, he figured, and he just had to work at it a little more.

The other problem, of course, was that as hard as he’d fought for his freedom, he still hadn’t figured out what that freedom would actually look like. And the cold, hard truth that he’d been pushing aside for years was that he had been exactly where he wanted to be. He  _liked_ Neal Caffrey, that version of himself was as close as he’d ever come to being authentic, to feeling like he was satisfied. But, he kept reminding himself, he gave that life up for a reason and knowing Peter and Elizabeth were safe and happy overpowered everything.

“The walls are still bare,” Mozzie said, one drizzly afternoon as he uncorked a bottle of sangiovese. The sun was setting behind thick, grey clouds, casting a surreal dirty-pink light over the city while the wind pushed flecks of rain against the windows.

Neal looked up from his book. “I’ve only been in the place three weeks,” he shrugged. ”I’m still deciding on the vibe.” He set his book aside and looked around for his cigarettes, eying the weather outside with distaste.

“You mean you haven’t figured out how to decorate without robbing the Louvre?”

Neal laughed. “That might have something to do with it. That Cézanne would have looked spectacular under the rooflight, don’t you think?”

Mozzie made a flailing gesture. “Then keep the rest of your stash! Or better yet,  _go to the Louvre_ ,” he said, pointedly.

Neal shook his head. “Moz - c’mon.” He picked up his lighter but Mozzie moved towards him and closed his hands around Neal’s fingers.

“Give this up.  _Neal_ \- ” Moz sighed, gathering himself, and something about the way he said his name reminded Neal so much of Peter. “You’re  _young_ , good looking and in  _Paris_. Go out, meet other beautiful people, do whatever beautiful people do. Things will fall into place one way or another, I promise.”

“Are you telling me to get a life?” Neal asked, affecting a look of disbelief to hide the downward pull of his mouth.

“Yes. Very much yes. And also, something about time.”

“Okay,” Neal took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. “But seeing as it’s only 2 p.m how about I make us lunch first?”

Mozzie raised a finger, ready to make a counterpoint, and Neal could see the wheels turning. "Will you make chicken saltimbocca?

Neal smiled. "I will." He surrendered his lighter and went to rummage in the fridge. He was searching the veg drawer when he heard Mozzie softly curse. It was so quiet that Neal assumed he’d spilled wine on his shirt. But then he repeated the words more urgently and Neal turned to see he was looking at his phone, his face ashen.

“Moz - what?” Neal crossed the room and took the phone from him. On the screen was a news alert from  _The_   _Times_ :  _Pink Panthers crew shot and killed in jail break attempt._  Neal blinked, re-reading the words several times, unable to absorb them. He dropped the phone on the dining room table as though it had burned him and sunk into the nearest chair. Mozzie was saying something but Neal couldn’t hear past the blood rushing through his ears. He shook his head, trying to bring himself back to clarity but it was as though someone had swept up a deck of cards in one motion and thrown them back up into the air.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was like a match being lit, the scraping tug of friction then a pop of phosphorus: Neal was alive. It seemed too miraculous, too wonderful to be true, that Peter spent weeks trying to come up with some other conclusion, a rational, natural explanation for what he’d found in the storage container. For the wine bottle. For Mozzie’s disappearance. For the art. He couldn’t allow himself to believe because letting go of his grief and pain for a single second, only to find he was wrong would be too much to bear. And even when he could make the pieces fit and explain everything away, his gut told him to look again.

So, two weeks after pulling open that container door, he met Diana on their usual bench just inside Bryant Park.

“A clandestine meeting, feels like old times,” Diana said, when she sat down and handed Peter a coffee. She pulled her coat close around herself, against the bitter air. “Well, normally this is where you tell me Neal has done something insane and I’m about to abuse my remaining contacts in Washington,” she laughed, but the smile faded from her face as she saw Peter’s expression. “Boss?”

“I think Neal might have done something insane. I mean, really insane.”

Diana shook her head. “What do you mean?”

He told her everything. And by the time he’d finished, Peter felt more and more confident in his belief, voicing his thoughts out loud, laying the evidence out piece by piece as he had done with a thousand cases; he knew when a case didn’t feel right and this felt right.

Diana sat in astonished silence for a long moment before speaking. “You saw his body. Surely even if he’d taken this - this poison, someone at the coroner's office would have realised he was still alive.”

“I think he paid them off.”

“Have you spoken to them?”

Peter nodded. “They’re not admitting to anything. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t do it. There are two members of staff with criminal histories who were on shift that evening.”

Diana let out a long breath, the cloud it created quickly dissipated in the air. Somewhere in the distance a car horn blared; above them a plane banked and turned golden as it caught the sun. “Peter this is - ”

“Crazy? I know,” Peter smiled softly. “But the timing of it all makes sense. If Neal did this to protect us and himself from the Panthers, then their death changes everything.”

“It would be incredible if it were true, my god - ” Diana looked at him and Peter could see she was trying to decide if she had to let him down gently, tell him he’d finally lost it, or was willing follow him down a rabbit hole. Finally, she nodded. “How do you want to do this?”

They decided to share the information with the bureau, mainly to clarify Neal’s legal status if he was found to be alive, but also because it occurred to Peter that if Neal was alive and he could somehow return to New York, then it would be so much easier for him if everyone had time to process the information, to let the shock die down. It felt unreal to even be able to concern himself with such details, to consider the possibility of Neal walking through those doors once again. There was a great deal of scepticism, that was to be expected of course, but eventually everyone seemed to reach the same conclusion: if anyone could pull off this sleight of hand, it was Neal. Bancroft confirmed the evidence Peter had presented warranted an investigation, and suddenly there was life again in the bullpen, a growing sense excitement and optimism rippling through the team.

Their first course of action was to find Mozzie. If Neal was anywhere on this earth, Peter felt sure Mozzie was there with him. He’d gone completely to ground, but the cell phone he’d been using before he disappeared was still in service, even if it had been turned off for months. It gave Peter a small glimmer of hope that Mozzie hadn’t cut all ties completely.

Several meetings were held by the higher ups in New York and Washington, some of which Peter was invited to, and some he wasn’t. There was reluctance to deliver an official decision on Neal’s status, but with June’s help Peter retained a lawyer on Neal’s behalf and pushed for an answer. That answer came on a Friday morning in the form of an email from Neal’s lawyer.

_...on balance, any criminal behaviour Mr Caffrey might have engaged in is wholly invalidated by the nobility of the act…_

The contract stood; Neal was a free citizen.

 

*

 

A month passed in slow motion. Everything had gone quiet, no trace of Mozzie, no more deliveries of art, no more bottles of wine. Peter was on edge, every knock at the door, every phone call and text got his heart thumping with the thought that one day it might finally be Neal.

“It might not be that straightforward, Hon,” El said as they walked home from the park one morning, baby Neal chattering away happily in his stroller and Satchmo ambling alongside. Of everyone, El had been the most cautious about the entire situation, adding reasonable doubt to temper Peter’s enthusiasm and protect him from himself. “Have you considered that he might not want to come back? That the bottle meant goodbye?”

Peter had, of course, but he refused to dwell on it. The sheer ecstasy in discovering Neal might be alive coloured everything, the desire to lay eyes on him and know without any doubt that this was real overpowering all other reason. Besides, he and Neal had said enough last goodbyes for a lifetime, somehow they never seemed to stick.

“I know it’s a possibility,” he nodded, as they reached the front steps of their house. "But he didn't need to send it at all, or leave the evidence for me to find. He could have just walked away."

Satchmo started barking as soon as they walked inside, rushing forward into the house excitedly, leash trailing behind him. Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a look, and heart in his throat, Peter rounded the corner to find Mozzie sitting at their dining room table. The folder of documents from the lawyer's office was spread out in front of him. “Is it true? Neal’s contract has been upheld?” he asked, as though they'd seen each other the other day. 

“Yes,” Peter said, hoarsely. His heart was racing. “He’s alive?”

Mozzie smiled, warm and genuine. “Yes.”

Peter dropped into the chair next to him, dizzy with relief. “He’s okay?”

Mozzie nodded and reached down to take the toy Satchmo had brought him, giving him a scratch on the muzzle. "He's well."

El moved to stand behind Peter, and when he looked up at her he could see tears silently streaming down her face. She linked her hand in his over his shoulder. “Where is he?” she asked.

“Paris. He knows about Woodford.”

“Then why isn’t he here?” Peter asked, head spinning. Mozzie was still wearing his thick green overcoat, even in the warmth of the house, and everything about his posture said he wasn’t sticking around.

“He didn’t want to give you a heart attack by just turning up - and he was worried that you wouldn’t want to see him, that you’d be upset about what he’d done.”

“Mozzie, that’s crazy,” El said.

Peter nodded and leaned forward in his chair, meeting Mozzie’s eyes with his own. “Tell him I don’t care about anything,” he said, putting weight on every word. “I just need to see him.”

Mozzie looked deeply relieved as he stood up, and Peter realised he'd been bracing himself for a different answer all together. "I’ll let him know.” He dropped a kiss on Elizabeth’s forehead and left.

The weekend passed interminably, then late Sunday evening there was a soft, hesitant knock at the door. It was so quiet, Peter was sure his mind was playing tricks on him, but he opened it to find Mozzie standing on the top step, holding a small leather cabin bag. “Mozzie - wh  - ” he started to say, but Mozzie silently stepped aside, and there behind him was Neal.

Peter’s vision swam and he realised that absolutely nothing could have prepared him for that moment. Neal’s eyes were bright and his expression was as open and vulnerable as Peter had ever seen. Peter took a step forward and in one movement placed a hand on the back of Neal’s neck and pulled him into his arms. Neal felt solid and real, and all the pain and anguish, the emptiness he’d lived with for the past year and a half seemed to evaporate in a single second. He pulled back after a long moment and held Neal by the shoulders, drinking in the sight of him, chest tight with emotion. Behind him, Peter heard El gasp; Neal smiled as she reached for him. Peter looked at Mozzie, who simply nodded and dropped Neal’s bag in the hallway. "I’ll see you around, _Suit_ ,” he said, playfully, and then he was gone again.

Elizabeth stepped back and held Neal’s face in her hands. There were tears running down both their cheeks. “You’ve been so missed, Neal,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Neither can I.” Neal smiled again briefly before the expression fell. He looked dazed as he shook his head, looking between the two of them. “I’m so sorry, about everything. I couldn’t - ”

Peter held his arm. “Don’t you dare apologise. We know.” He pulled Neal in for another hug, needing that physical reassurance that he was really there and suspecting that Neal needed it too. “It’s okay, you’re okay, you're okay.”

Neal nodded against his shoulder and stepped back, suddenly looking woozy. And it was only then that Peter really clocked how pale he looked, a flush high in his cheeks. “Here,” Peter said, guiding him to sit on the couch. He looked startlingly young and there was something slightly haunted in his eyes that Peter recognised from how his own reflection had looked for months and months.

“When did you last eat?” El asked, moving to sit on the arm of the couch beside him and running a hand across his back.

“Uh, I had lunch before my flight,” he said, wiping his eyes tiredly. “To be honest I was too nervous to even think about it.”

By Peter’s calculations, Neal would have taken an evening flight from Paris, meaning it could have been close to twenty hours since he’d had anything. Elizabeth fixed a plate of food, and they all sat together in the living room while Neal ate, talking about the past sixteen months - the pregnancy, the story of baby Neal very nearly being born in a cab, office gossip, El’s new job. They danced around the days and moments that were still raw for all of them, but, Peter reminded himself, there was time for everything now. He could just sit back and savour the sight of Neal, whole and healthy, eating dinner in his living room with Satchmo at his feet, the way he'd done a hundred times before.

The night deepened and eventually El gave in and went up to bed. Peter stood up from the couch and stretched before picking up the baby monitor from the coffee table. “The guest room is all yours - for as long as you want,” he added pointedly.

“Thank you, Peter,” Neal said, sounding genuinely touched. He looked around the room, as though expecting someone to tear away the walls and reveal it all to be a lie. "This all seems so surreal - " he trailed off, catching his bottom lip with his teeth.

“I saw you everywhere, y’know,” Peter said, softly, wanting Neal to know how deeply his loss had been felt. “I’d look out the window and swear I could see your reflection in the glass, or out of the corner of my eye I’d think you were sitting at your desk.”

"Peter, I - " Neal suddenly looked crushed and Peter immediately regretted his words. “When I understood the threat the Panthers posed to you and Elizabeth, to the team, I realised I had no other choice, but you have to know I didn’t choose it lightly. I wanted my freedom, but I wasn't ready to leave.”

Peter's chest ached. “I know you didn't. I meant what I said earlier - you have nothing to apologise for.” Peter dropped to sit on the coffee table opposite him. “ _Neal_ , you did something so - so profound. You gave up everything for us. I don’t know a lot of people who would have the guts to do the same.” It hit Peter as he said the words, just how difficult this must have been for Neal. He hadn’t just been swanning around Paris, waiting for things to fall into place. He’d been entirely alone in the world, with no one who knew him or cared about him. Peter couldn’t begin to imagine how that would feel. They sat in silence for a moment before Peter squeezed Neal’s knee, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I think it's time for bed. You must be exhausted.”

Neal smiled ruefully. “I am, but ironically my insomnia has been in overdrive lately. I guess you _can’t_ sleep when you’re dead.”

Peter huffed and tapped his arm. “C’mon, try. I’ll sit up with you.”

Despite his protestations, it was immediately obvious to Peter once Neal got into bed that he wouldn’t be awake long, blinking slowly as he was, movements leaden with sleep. Peter sat on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, watching as he lost the battle. Neal turned towards Peter, burying his face in the pillow. In the dim light of the room, his hair was a swoop of black, his eyebrows two dark smudges. The covers had bunched up and Neal’s sock covered feet stuck out from under them. Peter thought about the formidable rush of emotions he’d felt when his son was born, and how everyone had told him to prepare for a lifetime of anxiety and protectiveness, but when those emotions hit in the hospital room, Peter had recognised them instantly.

 

*

 

Summer exploded, quite suddenly, out of a long and dreary spring, like a light switch being flipped. The crowds on Fifth Avenue became a sea and Central Park was luminous with colour. Neal stepped out of June’s townhouse and strolled down Riverside, breathing in the morning air, a little cool and full of ozone from last night’s rain, as he looked for a cab. He was wearing one of his sharpest navy suits with a crisp pale blue shirt, and he tipped his chin up a little as he walked, enjoying the admiring glances he was getting and the buzz of the city. 

It had been six months since he’d boarded that plane at Charles de Gaulle, heart leaping every time he looked at the moving map and saw the distance and time to his old life closing. Despite Mozzie’s reassurances, he’d still been vibrating with nerves at the prospect of seeing Peter and Elizabeth. He thought often about the look on their faces when he saw them, the intensity of their love and relief, and the warmth of their voices even though he couldn’t remember exactly what they’d said in that moment. It grounded him on nights when he woke up and momentarily thought he was still in that hotel in Paris, sick and alone, or when he read about a new art exhibition in the city and felt a pang of temptation. It was more muscle memory at that point, but it was there nonetheless. The law still didn't really mean anything to him, there was no newfound respect, fear or reverence bourne from his experience, but it meant something to Peter and these days that was enough.

His cell phone buzzed just as his taxi reached the corner of Lafayette and Canal. He smiled as he looked at the screen. “Hi Peter.”

“Neal, tell me you didn’t let slip to Meyers last night that the FBI is investigating his competitor for fraud.” Peter’s voice was full of barely contained frustration, and Neal could picture the look on his face, kind of like an angry, constipated frog.

“Good morning to you too, Peter. And I _may_ have heavily implied something along those lines. But it made him trust me and I got evidence on the fraud and hell of a lot of other stuff too.” Peter sighed harshly in the way he did when Neal was right. “Look, I’m almost at the office I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

The elevator doors dinged and rumbled open to the twenty-first floor and Neal smirked as he caught sight of Peter waiting for him by his desk.

“I’m not sure who’s going to give me an ulcer first, you or my toddler,” Peter said by way of greeting.

“Hmm, my money is on adult Neal, Boss,” Diana said as she and Jones walked up to them.

Jones nodded. “Baby Neal definitely wins on impulse control. But you’ve got him beat in the drool stakes.”

Neal feigned a wounded expression. “Now that’s just insulting to both of us. And I have more teeth.”

“Oh, no, not that hurt puppy thing,” Peter said, as Neal did his best to make his eyes big and sad. Peter ushered a laughing Jones and Diana away. “No one look directly at him," he announced to the office. Gather at the safety point.”

Neal shot him a flat expression.

“We’re not done with our earlier conversation,” Peter said, trying and failing to look serious.

Neal sighed and took off his hat, letting it drop to his finger tips. “I didn’t think we would be.”

Peter rocked on his heels. “So, you coming to dinner this Friday?”

“Wouldn’t miss is. But I’ll be late - I have a meeting with the Head of Security at the National Gallery in Washington in the morning.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Seems like they’re in need of a security upgrade.”

"Finally wore them down, I see.”

Neal grinned. “I can be very persuasive.” Returning the art had built up enough good will with a number of galleries and museums that he’d been able to test the water with his security consultancy work, with Mozzie as his partner, while still working for the bureau and charging a very nice price for his services.

“Well, it’s nice to see you using your super powers for good.” Peter tapped his arm with a file, eyes warm with affection, as they headed through the bullpen towards the stairs.

“Oh, what time’s the briefing this afternoon?”

“Four, why?”

“I'm having drinks with the director of the Met at six.”

“Aren’t you still banned from there?”

“Your wife can be very persuasive, too.”

“That she can.” Peter laughed and they headed into the conference room for the morning update. Neal took his usual spot on the window ledge and started looking through the documents a probie had handed him as the rest of the team filed in. The sun was streaming through the windows, glistening off all the polished surfaces, and casting the room in a warm haze. Peter started the meeting, quickly getting into full flow as he outlined the details of a number of new cases.

As he had several times recently, Neal was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude, the kind of feeling that almost took him outside of his body with the intensity of it, just for a moment. Sometimes in life you go through hell, and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you come out the other side to find what you have is exactly what you want.

 

 

 

 _End_.


End file.
